in your warmth I'll fade
by HaneGaNai
Summary: It's been three days since Stiles was taken. TW for mentions of torture and suicidal thoughts.
1. Chapter 1

It's been three days since the last time Stiles breathed fresh air and could actually breathe freely. Three days since he saw anything outside the crude walls of the warehouse they kept him in. Three days since he last ate, the only swallow of water gulped down involuntarily when they dunked his head in a tub.

Three days since they swept him from right outside the grocery store and started asking him questions about the pack. Three days with hands bound at his back and his ankles tied together with rope. Three days of his silence and their growing annoyance. Of fists twisting in his hair and jerking him around, open palms clashing with his cheeks, well-aimed kicks to his middle when he curled up on the concrete floor.

Three days since he promised himself he'd bite off his tongue if he even though of giving in, choke on his blood if he considered opening his mouth. Slam his head into the floor if betrayal became an option.

Three days since all he could feel was cold and pain. There was dried blood on his face and neck, down his shirt where it trickled from his nose. His right cheek bruised and swollen, chest aching and tight with all the signs of at least one broken rib. His wrists and legs are sore, scratched bloody where ropes got in contact with the skin. His whole body feels stiff and the cold makes it all worse. God, he is so cold.

They leave him alone for several hours at a time, waiting for him to crack open and spill bloody. Waiting for him to yell surrender. It's been three days and he'll last at least another three, and then three more if it means they focus on him and his Pack is safe, if it means Scott and his dad and Derek and Peter are all looking for him.

But it's been three days and he's slowly accepting the fact that he'll never be warm again, that the chill will never go away, that it'll stay until the day they get tired of his silence and crack his skull. Or he'll do it himself.

It's been three days and he almost lost hope when Peter finds him and his whole Pack is there.

Peter, covered in blood, towering above the remains of the hunter. Victorious, but not triumphant. Peter with electric blue eyes that are suddenly inches away from his, dark with worry and blood lust, reeking of rage. Peter, halfway to wolfed out checking over his injuries with clawed hands gentler than any touch Stiles ever felt. Peter, cutting through the ropes and lifting him up as carefully as he can, cradling him close.

Peter, smelling like blood and woods and cider, like safety and warmth and home.


	2. Chapter 2

Seeing Stiles like this: sleeping in a hospital bed, pale skin against pristine white sheets, IV needle sticking out of one hand - it should not be a familiar sight. Yet he feels disturbingly used to in a discomforting way. The white walls, the white rooms, white gowns, white noise in his ears unless he focuses on the boy's steady heartbeat.

It's steady now, the thump of it so blissfully easy and even, calm. But not calming. Not yet. He doesn't reek of blood and pain anymore, but Peter's smell is almost gone from him as well. It makes him want to do reckless, dangerous things. Makes rage flare in him again and again and demand revenge. Even if there no longer is anyone left to suffer his fury.

The Sheriff has gone home, forced by him and Melissa both to get some sleep, a shower and a change of clothes. He's been here with Peter, or the other way around, for more than thirty hours. First waiting for the doctors' verdict, then relieved, for Stiles to wake up.

And he did, briefly. A few minutes of lucidity, a gasp of pain, calling for his father in a croaked voice. Half-smiling at Peter and passing out again holding onto Peter's fingers.

He's been sitting at the edge of Stiles' bed for hours, pacing the room in hundreds of circles, but his wolf wouldn't settle, wouldn't stop howling for the boy. Calling for him to wake up, be safe, be whole, always there. Worried, guilty whimpers, because Peter failed him, didn't manage to keep him unharmed.

The three days before they finally located the hunters and the warehouse they squatted at seemed somehow longer than the six years he spent in a coma. Felt more bereft and raw. Those three days stretched into one single endless hand clutching at his lungs, tearing into them and driving him almost insane with the need to find Stiles, the need to breathe him in. Long, tense hours of tracking, looking for clues, researching. Uncountable minutes spent in fear that all might be lost, that they might be too late, that they would fail Stiles. That _he_ would fail Stiles.

Because Stiles is a weakness, but not the weakest link. Stiles is that single part of Peter that he could not lose, could not bear to let go of. Stiles keeps his wolf settled, content, makes him feel emotions Peter thought were long gone, buried in the ruins of his home. Now it's Stiles that is his home. His reprieve. Salvation.

Beautiful, strong Stiles, with golden-brown eyes that make Peter feel cherished. Awake. In constant awe. Stiles, with plush pink lips curving softly at the sight of Peter looming over him. Long, slender fingers reaching out slowly to brush over Peter's cheek, too weak to cup Peter's face and remain there if not for Peter's own hand pressing it close, keeping it there.

Soft, groggy voice sounding the same way it does every morning they wake up together, wrapped in each other so closely no one could tell them apart.

"You came for me."

"Always. I'll always come for you, Stiles." He answers and his voice is just as soft, cracked only slightly. Blistered at word endings.

"I'll always find you." He presses the oath into dried lips, seals the promise with a gentle sweep of his tongue, a brief taste. A declaration.

He leans in closer, presses his face into the crook of Stiles' neck the way he longed to do for days and just breathes in until he finally manages to detect Stiles' scent. Breathes out until the scent mixes with Peter's, until they both smell the same. Until it's cider and cinnamon, woods and earth blending together. Until it's only them.


End file.
